that's not the protocol
by Narquelie
Summary: The harsh truth is: she has developed a completely unprofessional, pathetic, schoolgirl crush. On her boss. (Caitlin/Wells, pre-canon, spoilers up to 1x10) [IN-PROGRESS]
1. (there's something wretched about this)

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nice try,

you cannot turn away

but _nice try_

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**i. (there's something wretched about this)**

On the night of her engagement party she lies spread out on the desk in her study, her boss's head between her thighs.

Seconds tick by on the ancient grandfather clock behind her, reminding her that in less than twenty minutes she should be downstairs, next to her fiancé, greeting the guests. Caitlin digs her nails into the desk, bites her tongue.

She's quiet when she comes.

"This is the last time," she says, pushing herself further back on the desk, purple dress up around her waist. Her breath comes in short gasps. He rises from his knees, his gaze steady in its intensity as it rakes over her, and it still sends shivers down her spine, even though she's in love with someone else, even though she shouldn't even be thinking about it (or maybe – because of that).

He unbuckles his belt, pushes her legs farther apart. "Definitely."

They had this conversation before – her words desperate and hopeless, his answer always the same (always letting her go) – and she'd leave promising herself she would never come back, knowing full well that's not what would happen. (She always came back.)

It's different this time. She feels it in the way he grips her hips (it hurts, it will leave bruises, but it's the best kind of pain), the way he whispers her name, feels it when he comes with his lips pressed to her neck.

They don't kiss. She can't ruin her make up.

(There are 39 days until the launch of the particle accelerator. 53 days until her wedding with Ronnie.)

(It _is_ the last time.)

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The thing is: she should have known better.

She's 23 when she starts working at STAR Labs; full of enthusiasm and energy, dazzled by the brilliant minds she gets to work with. She's a quick study; learns to fit in with the other scientists, even though she's one of the youngest there (the youngest, actually, save for Cisco). She learns the workplace routine, makes friends. Her youthful naivety doesn't hurt her yet, because she's smart and careful, friendly enough to be liked, yet still focused completely on the work she's doing. The goal is clear: show them that they weren't mistaken to give her this opportunity. Show them that Caitlin Snow was a risk worth taking. (She doesn't forget the long talks she had with the head of her faculty, about her lack of experience _or_ a Ph.D, while Dr. Harrison Wells sat next to her, his charming smile never leaving his face, saying over and over that he trusts her and that he's willing to take this chance, carefully ignoring the way her hands shook in her lap.)

He's a bit like a hurricane, Doctor Wells – she decides early on. He's always moving from lab to lab – checking up on progress, offering praise, discussing new ideas. It's an obvious effort to boost morale, you don't have to be a psychologist to know that, but Caitlin finds out first hand how well it works. He can drop by in the late afternoon – when she's craving caffeine and her very _brain_ hurts from arguing a certain problem with her lab partner Louise – and even a few of his questions, astute and on point, can bring her back on track, working on another solution with new-found energy until Louise taps her shoulder to let her know it's time to go home. Caitlin knows she's not the only one motivated by her boss's approval and passion; the whole lab works like clockwork, the results each week more astounding than before. It's more than an honor to be a part of this team.

The mistake she makes? It's hard to tell. Maybe she starts feeling too much at home. Maybe she trusts herself too much, maybe she feels too lonely, maybe all she really needs at this point is to be close to somebody.

She starts talking to Louise more. They spend most of the time together, and she's easy to like – with her sarcasm, sharp wit and kind, intelligent eyes. She goes to lunch with Cisco and laughs at his ridiculous jokes until her eyes well with tears and her eyeliner gets smudged. She finally accepts the weekly invitation and goes with the whole team for a Friday drink.

She lets her guard down.

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They're listening to Larry Ishmael's wild theory about Superman. It's a late Friday night and Caitlin feels warm and lazy, buzzed by the two vodka tonics she's just drank. She smiles too wide, her lipstick smudged on the edge of her glass. She can't remember the last time she felt this good.

Larry stops talking, looks forlornly at the empty beer bottle standing in front of him. There's laughter and shuffling of chairs, and someone calls 'Damn it, he's not even at the good part yet'.

"I'll get you another, Larry," Dr. Wells says, getting up. He looks like he's holding back laughter himself, lips curved upwards and slightly trembling. He turns to Caitlin, gazes at her own empty glass. "Would you like one too, Caitlin?"

She nods her head, for a thousandth time marveling at how wonderful he is, how completely unlike anyone she's ever met before. He takes her empty glass and her eyes follow him as he turns around and walks to the kitchenette. He's so tall, and _lean_, and it's somehow even more pronounced now that he's taken off his jacket. Her eyes slip lower, and she unconsciously licks her lips at the sight of his ass in those tight-fitting slacks.

It takes her approximately three seconds to avert her gaze and go completely red, all thanks to Louise who calls her name from across the table. She starts going on about something Caitlin can't really focus on because a) she can't shake off the image of her boss's shapely ass and b) she's panicking about noticing said ass in the first place.

She tries to take a deep, calming breath.

It's all because she's drunk, right?

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She's completely sober when it happens again. She's sketching at her desk, nearly finished with her project, when she looks up through the glass wall of her lab. He's talking to Dr. Stone, with their backs turned to her and she can't help her gaze dropping lower. It takes only a moment for her to catch herself and she goes back to drawing, feeling hot and foolish and out of control.

And it's hardly the only thing that worries her.

She starts noticing things about him; they're random and seemingly inconsequential, but it's like she's suddenly attuned to everything he does, the way her body reacts to his nearness.

She finds out that:

he smells like mint and some sort of delicious, rich cologne;

he plays with his glasses, _a lot_;

his fingers are long and thin, and she wonders if he can play the piano (this train of thought is dangerous because playing the piano is not the only thing one could do with fingers like these);

when he smiles the corners of his eyes crinkle and dimples appear in his cheeks, and it makes him the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

The harsh truth is: she has developed a completely unprofessional, pathetic, schoolgirl crush.

On her boss.

And well. It's fucking inconvenient.

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It's more than inconvenient when it starts interfering with her work.

He still pops into her lab, still leans above her shoulder, still smiles and offers praise – but it has exactly the opposite effect to the one intended. Caitlin focuses too much on her deafeningly loud heartbeat, the very brush of his sleeve against hers sets her nerves on fire, and has this place always been so damn warm?

He looks at her with curiosity, the intensity of his gaze piercing her through; it's like he can reach into her mind and see all her ridiculously inappropriate thoughts. He keeps looking – even when she turns around she can feel his gaze on her, like a warm touch on her body.

"You are overworking yourself, Snow," Louise says, her face pitying, when Caitlin jumps after the other woman has touched her shoulder. "When was the last time you went out?"

(It's a rhetorical question – they go out that night for drinks and dance too much; Caitlin goes home with a handsome art student whose name she won't remember the next day. But that's okay. That's how stress-relief works.)

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Nothing changes. (Or everything does, depending on the perspective.)

She continues looking at her boss. Her mind continues supplying her with images of Wells's pianist fingers running up her thighs, of his lips pressed to her neck.

She continues to hate herself for it.

(The difference she refuses to acknowledge is that – sometime along the way – he started looking at her too.)

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They have a Thanksgiving party, to appease their sponsors.

It's dull, but they have to stay until eleven, have to play nice for the Central City wealth. Caitlin finds herself with a bottle of wine at one of the side tables, pretending to listen to an art collector of sorts – fat and sweating and leaning too close; but she's getting drunk and it feels good; numb and pleasantly warm, her smile coming more easily with every minute.

She wonders briefly if enduring this man's presence is worth the check he'll give them, decides that yes, of course, they'll need all the money they can get now that they're talking about this brilliant new project; she has so many ideas, so many ways to make this work –

"There you are, Doctor Snow."

The art collector sits back in his chair and suddenly Caitlin is able to breathe again. Wells is standing by her side glaring at the other man, strangely grave, almost threatening. Her heart beats faster. Her bottle of wine is almost empty.

She looks up at Wells, her chest contracting – is that concern in his eyes? – and tries to smile reassuringly, because hey, she's doing fine, there's no need to worry.

But it doesn't work very well.

He apologizes to the man – his voice hard, frigidly polite – then leans down and holds out his hand to her.

"Come on, let's get you home," he says, his breath brushing her hair. He wraps his arm around her waist to steady her. It's a blessing really (not counting the shivers his touch sends through her body), she's not entirely sure she could make it on her own.

She must have fallen asleep in the cab, because when she opens her eyes they're walking up to her house. Her head is not spinning anymore, but her legs still feel shaky, so she's happy to keep herself pressed into Wells's side.

When they reach her door she turns around; his hand is still on her hip, anchoring, keeping her upright. Caitlin dips her head back. Looks into his eyes. They seem dark in the dim light of the street lamp, and there's heat behind his gaze. She doesn't pretend it surprises her.

There is no notion of romance – there wouldn't have been even if she weren't pissed drunk – but still, something ignites inside her, and all of her stone-cold logic deserts her mind under the intensity of his gaze.

She leans in, her knees wobbly, curls her fingers into the lapels of his jacket. His scent is intoxicating, blinding, and he's so close, and so warm, and for once Caitlin is tired of running away.

So she kisses him.

He tastes like champagne and mint, his tongue hot against hers. She means to be tentative at first, give him a chance to withdraw, but it's all useless because he's kissing her back, open mouthed and urgent. His arm tightens around her waist, pulling her closer until she's pressed against his chest, struggling to breathe but never wanting to let go. His hand cups her cheek and tilts her head back, kisses her hard, fierce, nips at her bottom lip. She moans into his mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes look dazed. His hand is still cradling her cheek. Caitlin's breath comes in ragged gasps.

"Come inside," she says, but it sounds like a question, unsure, and she flushes against her will.

Wells's thumb brushes gently across her cheekbone, cool against her feverish skin. She wants to close her eyes and lean into his touch like a cat, wants to turn her head so that he's touching her lips again.

"No," he says, and good God, she actually _pouts_, mortification setting in. He presses his lips to her forehead, hot and lingering. "Another time," and he takes a step back, his arms falling from her body, leaving her terribly hot and aching.

She thinks she hears him say goodnight, and then he's turning around and _walking away._ She leans boneless against her front door, her keys biting into the skin of her palm.

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Caitlin considers quitting her job.

She screwed up bad, really bad, and quitting would allow her to preserve at least some dignity, as opposed to being publicly laid off by the boss she assaulted (which is probably going to happen anyway). But then – it would be a betrayal of everything Caitlin stands for. Giving up on science – giving up on the particle accelerator she knows she can help create – for some stupid, personal reason? That, she could never forgive herself.

So she takes two aspirins and wallows in self-pity for the whole weekend. And on Monday, she goes to work.

It's horrible.

Absolutely nothing happens.

Wells spends the whole day locked in his office – Louise laughs that he probably has the worst hangover of them all, that the sponsors must have bored him out of his mind and broken his brain – but Caitlin thinks it's even worse than a direct confrontation. His absence sets her on edge, and she can't handle the uncertainty – her hands shake, and she keeps looking at his door, unable to focus on her work.

When she sees him the next day she feels herself shrink – both in fear of losing her job, and from the memory of jumping into his arms like some sort of –

But he doesn't say a word, instead goes to Louise's desk to talk about something she's been working on, and Caitlin doesn't even dare to look at him, her eyes glued to her monitor the entire time he's in the lab.

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They don't talk for an entire week.

It drives her crazy.

It's ridiculous, because it's quite clear at this point that he's not going to sack her – yet she's paralyzed with shame, furiously blushing every time she looks at him. Wells seems to be content with keeping his distance and doesn't initiate any sort of contact between them, unless they're in a group and politeness requires it.

It drives her crazy, because she misses him.

She's good at what she does, she knows she is, but work is not the same without his input. She always goes for the difficult path – and she misses Wells's fresh point of view, the way he can remind her that sometimes an easy solution is not necessarily a bad one, the way he can completely redirect her train of thought and inspire her to find even better ideas.

She misses his jokes, and his crinkling eyes and the touch of his hand on her shoulder. She shouldn't be thinking about it anymore, but apparently she's just too far gone.

She's never felt more miserable in her life.

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He's leaning on the edge of his desk, sweeping his fingertips over the screen of his tablet, his coat already on. She shivers at the thought of missing him – she stayed late after all the other employees had left, preparing a lengthy speech, hoping that if he were to shout at her at least no one would be here to witness her humiliation. (She almost wishes he'd left. Almost thinks she's not strong enough to do this.)

"Caitlin," he greets her, and she really needs to stop acting like a sixteen year old blushing idiot, for God's sakes. She's made a decision and she's going to follow through.

She swallows drily. "Sir, I wanted to apologize."

Wells puts his tablet down, then crosses his arms over his chest. She almost forgets the entirety of her speech under his inquisitive gaze.

"I – what I did the other night, it was terribly disrespectful and unprofessional, and I'm so sorry, sir." Her voice wavers. She feels so damn young, so silly.

Wells stands up.

"I was drunk and I didn't know what I was doing. It was a horrible mistake."

He steps forward and her breathing quickens; there's something swirling in her stomach, dread and anticipation, both at once. She wants to step back (wants to step forward).

"I agree" he says, "that it was a mistake. _Because_ you were drunk, and you didn't know what you were doing."

She wonders if she's gone mad. If her hearing is still working. If she's going to faint.

Wells looks at her, a hint of sadness in his blue eyes. He's close, if she extended her hand she'd be able to take a hold of his coat, but he makes no move to step any further. "What kind of man would it make me, if I took advantage of you like that?"

Caitlin feels a sudden urge to laugh, and another to kiss him.

His eyes flick down to her lips.

She goes with the latter.

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_This is not real_, she thinks, the edge of the desk digging into her ass, her legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth trails down her jaw, over her neck, and she moans – undignified and ablaze, digging her nails into the wool of his coat. The door is unlocked. The cleaning staff may come any second now, and she knows she should care, but –

"Is that alright?" he asks, his voice strained, his fingers on the zipper of her dress. Caitlin nods mutely and he drags it all the way down. She tugs it off her shoulders, suddenly aware that he's still fully clothed while she's left in her underwear, but it only makes her wetter. She grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him down to her lips.

(Later – after the explosion, after a miraculous recovery, after horrific accusations – she'll remember that evening and wonder: how could he know exactly where to kiss her to make her scream, how could he know how to curl his fingers in her cunt in just the right way to make her come so hard and fast she'd seen stars, how could he know – but that'll be later.)

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They're in the conference room, the main staff gathered around the table and everyone is clapping and cheering, because the first draft is finished, because they're one huge step closer to success.

She finds Wells in the crowd and he smiles at her – that brilliant smile, _her_ smile – blue eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

Something explodes in Caitlin's chest.

She smiles back.

(They start working on the particle accelerator. The clock starts ticking.)


	2. (something so precious about this)

**ii. (something so precious about this)**

"You're working too much," her mother says sourly as soon as Caitlin arrives at the restaurant. This is the sort of greeting she expected; she doesn't even roll her eyes.

"I came to your apartment yesterday and the porter said you were still at work. It was 9 PM."

She _was_, technically, at work (having spectacular sex bent over her boss's desk, but Caitlin doesn't think her mother would appreciate that piece of information).

"We've started a very promising project, mom. We want to make it happen as soon as possible, so obviously – "

"You shouldn't be doing this _at all_," her mother says with a sigh. "You don't need the money, and yet you waste your best years in an... office, working all day, even overtime – I have told you countless times – "

Caitlin praises her self-control. She manages not to raise her voice. "I'm not doing it for money. I'm doing it because it's my passion and we can actually make a difference. Our work will help thousands, if not millions of people."

Her mother takes a sip of Prosecco. Even the gesture seems disapproving. "Thank God you're not working at a hospital. I wouldn't be able to take _that_."

"Why are you this way?" Caitlin asks halfheartedly; her question falls on deaf ears. Her mother is talking to the waiter, her polished brown hair curling elegantly around her face, her red lips twisting into a coy smile when the man stutters. She looks thirty-five, forty at worst and Caitlin realizes with a start that she's probably – most likely – younger than Wells. She suddenly feels sick.

"Have you heard from your father lately?" her mother asks seemingly without interest.

"No." Caitlin presses the tips of her fingers to her temples; she can feel a headache building up. She should have known this meeting would be a bad idea. "Why don't you check up on him yourself for once? Metropolis is not that far away."

"Don't be silly. He can stay in his lab till he dies, for all I care. It's not like anyone _misses_ him."

"Mom!"

Her mother shrugs. "You and him are the same. If it came to choosing between science and – anything else, really – family, your health, other people's happiness? You're always going to choose science."

"That's not true." She's not like her father, she never will be, she'd never turn her back on those she loves –

Ashley Lord-Snow purses her lips. Her eyes look sad. "Just look at yourself."

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She stops wearing lipstick. Even though he switches his white shirts for black ones, she still worries about leaving marks that would expose their secret, shudders at the thought of their co-workers catching sight of a red mark in the shape of her lips on Wells's neck. She stops wearing pants to work – there's just too much fuss with taking them off – and fills her wardrobe with skirts and dresses in their place. She buys a fair share of VS lingerie, but even that doesn't help her unease.

She's just really out of her depth here. (There's no guide to conducting an illicit affair with one's boss – she googled it, there really isn't anything of the sort – so she has to figure it all out herself, and every mistake is solely on her.)

But the fun parts – they are probably (definitely) worth it.

"Any new developments?" Wells asks casually, as if he weren't sprawled on his office couch, with Caitlin astride him, fumbling with his fly. She raises her head, hair falling over her face. He lifts his hand and tugs the unruly curls behind her ear.

"Are you sure you want to have this conversation right now?" She wraps her fingers around his cock, and tries not to smirk at the groan she gets in response.

"Oh yes, I'm very – curious."

Caitlin licks her lips. "We'll need more power," she says sweetly, her hand moving faster. "Dr. Stone says we may need to make a deal – are you listening to me? Should I stop so you can fully concentrate on the subject?"

Her hand stills around his cock. He almost growls. "Caitlin."

"Are you sure?"

His grip on her hips says enough.

She would have laughed if she weren't so impossibly turned on; instead, she lifts her skirt.

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(Soon enough it becomes a habit – once you get a taste, it's hard to quit.

Someone should have told her that.)

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The particle accelerator becomes their number one priority. It's thrilling, seeing what once was only an untidy sketch become solid, materializing before their eyes. A huge 3D model of the accelerator floats in the middle of the main lab, where most of the team have set camp to be able to update the project as soon as they come up with new adjustments. The lab is brimming with excitement, their focus exclusively on the task at hand. Sometimes Caitlin forgets anything else exists outside those walls.

"I think we should start assembling a team of engineers, Harrison," Dr. Stone says after approving the last stability update. His wife, currently in the middle of discussing her research with Caitlin, nods her head enthusiastically.

"No," Wells says sharply, and Caitlin turns in his direction, surprised by his tone. A flash of annoyance crosses his face, but it's almost immediately replaced by a good-natured smile. She wonders if her tired mind is playing tricks on her. "It's too soon, and we can't afford to hire any more people at the moment. And I know I may be repeating myself, Silas, but I don't want us moving any further until we're one hundred percent sure the accelerator is going to work."

Dr. Stone nods, deflated. But he doesn't try to contradict their boss; he knows as well as Caitlin does that Wells's words have been dictated by nothing but genuine concern for their safety. It warms Caitlin's heart, the knowledge of how caring, how _good_ Dr. Harrison Wells truly is.

Wells catches her looking at him and his eyes soften, the muscles in his face relaxing, smoothing out the lines on his face. He looks both young and old at once, tired and invigorated and there's something in the way he looks at her – something she can't identify but which makes her cheeks flush hotly.

She smiles at him, warmth spreading through her body.

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They have sex.

This sentence won't ever go past her mouth but really, there's no other way to describe it.

It's not fucking – he's too gentle, too considerate, too... _good_ to call it this crudely, although sometimes Caitlin wishes he weren't. It would have been easier to compartmentalize – to see it only as a way of releasing tension, of satisfying lust. But she cares too much; knows he cares too much, too.

And of course, it's not love making. You have to love someone for that.

And she's _not_ in love.

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Wells's house is over the top and magnificent, but not in the homely, old money way she's used to. There are no antiques here, no golden ornaments, no brocade curtains. It's modern and elegant, unreasonably cold at times, although Caitlin has never been bothered by that. It's intimidating at first, this vast space of glass buzzing with electricity, but she supposes it suits him – a man ahead of his time, with his sights firmly trained on the future. It's hard to imagine him living anywhere else.

His study – in comparison – is a mess; boxes of unpacked books piling up against the walls, unfinished projects and piles of notes stacked on every surface.

"It's all inconsequential right now," he says with a shrug, when she asks him about it. "Every project is on hold until we finish the particle accelerator. Can't be wasting my time on such small things," he adds with a chuckle. She supposes it makes sense, but still – the thought of potential breakthroughs lying discarded on the dusty floor bothers her too much to leave it alone.

Wells begrudgingly lets her drag the boxes of notes into the living room, trying to hide the fond smile that tugs on his lips. She starts sorting through his stuff – she feels shamelessly giddy at the thought that she may be the only one to ever witness the brilliance of some of his projects – after all it's possible that he won't finish them, even after the launch of the particle accelerator. He may lose interest in them or decide they're not worth publishing, but Caitlin likes to think that his ideas will still live in her mind.

She sits on the floor, leaning her back against his legs, organizing the jumble of papers into neat piles while Wells works on his laptop. There's nothing strange about this domesticity – after all they're colleagues, and _friends_, and that's something friends do –

Until Wells tugs her up and pulls her onto the couch beside him, his warm hands slipping under her blouse. (By then, of course, Caitlin has no mind to think of any strangeness at all.)

She makes a strangled sound when he unclasps her bra and presses his mouth between her breasts. She arches into his face, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

"That's much better than my office couch," he murmurs against her skin, mouth moving to her left nipple.

"It's still – it's still a _couch_," she chokes out between moans.

She barely manages to catch her breath when he lifts her – she winds her arms around his neck to keep her balance – and carries her to his bedroom as if she weighs nothing at all. She's still trying to get used to this – how unexpectedly strong he is, how deliciously hard his body is against her curves. He lays her on his bed and she pulls him on top of herself, almost ripping his shirt in her hurry to get it off.

His mouth sighs over her throat when he slides into her.

Her body is ablaze.

(She is _not_ in love.)

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.

.

Rules are good, so she comes up with at least twenty more.

She never stays the night. Doesn't leave her stuff in his house (broken, just once, when she left her copy of Pride and Prejudice on the bedside table and it must have fallen off, but it shouldn't really count because it wasn't _intentional_ or anything). Carries her toothbrush with her, never leaves it in his bathroom. Insists on paying for her dinner. Never, _ever_ wears his clothes.

It's important to remember what this is: temporary. An arrangement between friends who happen to be physically attracted to each other. It happens, it's not _that_ unusual.

It's important to remember that she's not allowed to feel anything more for him than friendship (and, very well, passion and all-consuming lust but that's part of their arrangement).

It's important to remember that he's her boss. That he's twice her age. That there's nothing more important to him than his work and that he would never pick her over it. That he would never fall in love with her.

(But sometimes she wonders, unwittingly, if it's happening to him, too – if he misses her as soon as she closes his door, if she's the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up in the morning. Wonders if his hands are constantly aching to touch her skin.

It's silly and she hates herself for it, the way her heart seems to be in conflict with her brain.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks once, because apparently she's an open book to him and he can read her unease as if it's something he's been studying for years on end. _The body language of a distressed Caitlin Snow: another remarkable project of Dr. Harrison Wells._

And does she? Oh, she really, really should.

She lets out a strained laugh. "Do you?")

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Caitlin is not _ticklish_, thank you very much, there's just this one spot behind her knee that should never ever be touched. Because of reasons.

Wells kisses his way up her leg, his hot mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It's good, so fucking good, until he reaches her knee. She lets out a scream – decidedly undignified, quite possibly inhuman – and nearly kicks him in the head in retaliation. He chuckles against her skin, the smug bastard, then does it again.

She tangles her fingers in his hair and yanks him up. Her breathing is ragged and she can feel a blush spreading across her face, down her neck; she gives him a warning look, but his smile only gets wider. He presses his lips to her navel. Caitlin sighs.

"What's that?" His mouth leaves her skin and it's probably the most annoying thing to ever happen to her. She looks down, to the spot above her hip he's circling with his index finger.

"You mean that beauty spot? I keep forgetting to get rid of it."

Wells looks at it intently, like he's trying to solve a mystery. He traces the spot with his finger, featherlight, barely there.

"It's going to leave a heart-shaped scar," he says absently. She cocks an eyebrow. It looks as if he's remembering something.

The moment passes quickly and he smiles, his hand moving up her belly. "It looks like it will, anyway."

It's strange – she wants to ask about it, but she can't even pin-point the reason why she thinks so in the first place. The look of remembrance on his face? Maybe his long-gone Tess had a similar mark.

She forgets about the question anyway, as soon as his lips touch hers once more.

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She's tired and annoyed, and she's just shut the door in Hartley's face – an indication of how little of her self-control is left at this point. It's half past ten and everyone is _still_ working, red-eyed and weary, moving through the lab like ghosts. Caitlin is sure that if she doesn't leave now she'll fall asleep on her desk. (Or slip into near-hysterics, like Louise.)

The 3D model of the accelerator swirls hypnotically in the middle of the main lab.

She really needs to leave.

Wells is sitting at his desk, and Caitlin has to knock twice on his open door to get his attention. His smile is stretched, the tired lines on his face deeper than she remembers. There's redness in the corners of his eyes.

"I'm almost done compiling the engineering team," he says. It sounds flat, joyless. She blames it on his tiredness.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asks, walking up to him. Wells drags his hand through his hair, ruffling it until it sticks messily in every direction. She flexes her hand, trying to stop herself from reaching out and smoothing it back.

"I don't know, at lunch probably." He shrugs.

Caitlin raises her eyebrow. "You don't remember? I haven't seen you leave your office since you came in this morning."

"Hartley brought me some sandwiches," he says and Caitlin huffs in disdain. Wells's lips twitch upward.

"You need to eat and you need rest. We're leaving _now_."

"Caitlin – "

"_Harry_."

He stiffens at the use of his name. The name she only uses in the privacy of his house. (The name she screams when she comes.)

It's absentminded, natural; slips from her lips before she takes time to think about it. She's trying to make a point. "Doctor's orders," she adds, her voice not stern enough, annoyingly laced with worry. "The world is not going to end if you finish this list tomorrow. So _come on._"

She drags him home, like a petulant child, and sends him off to take a shower while she cooks pasta. His kitchen is more familiar to her than her own – how in the world did that happen? – and she's bought him her favorite spices and sauces, so they'd always be at hand. She finishes even before he emerges from the bathroom, with his hair damp and a white t-shirt plastered to his chest, a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He takes the cork opener from her and opens the wine, while she tries not to gape.

They eat in companionable silence – the wine is good, the pasta is... passable – and when they're done she confiscates his tablet and phone, and ignoring his stubborn protests ushers him to bed. She's biting up a laugh when he plays along and slips under the white silk sheets, a smirk crawling onto his lips.

"Aren't you going to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, Doctor Snow?"

Caitlin laughs, feels the tension finally leave her body. Wells's eyes soften – although the playful edge is still there – and holds out his hand. She curls her fingers around his and leans down, gently pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. She sighs, closes her eyes.

A moment later his arms are around her waist, pulling her onto the bed, her laughter turning into a shrill giggle. He attacks her mouth, his tongue tracing the inside of her mouth, pulling at her bottom lip and making her moan. Wells's hand slips down to caress her thigh. He brushes his fingers over the edge of her panties and _oh, God_, she's getting so hot she can barely breathe.

"You're tired," she gasps against his mouth, unconsciously pressing her hips into his. He groans.

"Not _that_ tired."

.

.

.

She rises to leave, and shivers in the chilly air of the room. Wells's hand curls around her wrist and pulls her gently back to bed.

"Stay," he says, his voice thick with sleep. It sounds vulnerable. Like a question.

He never asked that before.

Caitlin thinks about her rules, about everything she's done to stop this from happening. She shouldn't be feeling this – shouldn't want to stay so much, shouldn't miss his warm touch as soon as he lets go of her, shouldn't worry about him not getting his rest, or not eating, or stressing himself out.

But here she is – her resolve slipping from her like sand through her fingers. She lies down, presses her head to his chest, while his arms wrap around her tightly, locking her in the safety of his warmth.

"It's snowing," he says and buries his face in her hair. Caitlin shivers, and it's good, it feels good – and maybe, just maybe, she can forget about the rules.

Just this once.

(There are 384 days until the launch of the particle accelerator.)

(3 days until she meets Ronnie.)


End file.
